


Less Than Nothing

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Post - Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-07
Updated: 2005-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the night before he will receive the Dementors' Kiss, Peter thinks about his life and the fact that he has always been defined by others. Has "Peter Pettigrew" ever been more than a synonym for "nothing"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first fanfics (and one of my first stories written in English) from way back in 2005.

The wind is soughing through your cell, and you are shivering on the cold stone floor in the corner furthest from the door. You have been here only for a day, but you already feel like it has been much longer. It's this place, it's them. Dementors.

One of them is approaching the cell , and you feel it, feel its greedy presence, feel how it's searching, feel how it's salivating with pleasure as it is feeding of your happiness. Not that it will find much; there hasn't been any happiness during the last years. All those years of crawling, of snivelling, of fear and disgust. Fear of your master and disgust with yourself.

“You're nothing.” The echo clangs through your mind, now that the Dementor is bringing out your worst memories.

There had been no hate in his voice, no scorn, no pity. You would have hated him for pitying you, but you also hated him for not doing so. For being so emotionless at seeing you. You, who had betrayed his parents and godfather, you, who had helped to resurrect the Dark Lord. You, who had killed his best friend. You are nothing to him. No display of emotion from Harry Potter, even when the judgement had been pronounced.

“Peter Pettigrew will receive the Dementor's Kiss within the next two days.”

No satisfaction. Nothing.

The Dementor is leaving, but it's too late now. The cold has grown stronger. Not physically, but in a way that makes you shake much more helplessly than the icy wind could. You notice that your hands are clenched into fists and your fingernails dig into your palms, drawing small droplets of crimson. You do not care. Tomorrow, it will all be over. Tomorrow, you will receive the Kiss. You thought you knew what fear was, but here, in this place, you realise that you had no idea. The Cruciatus Curse was hell, this and all the other punishments your master had invented for you, but they're nothing compared to your worst fear coming true. Tomorrow, they will take your soul from you. Tomorrow, you will truly be nothing.

Nothing. It has always been the curse that overshadowed your life.

You want to stop thinking, because you know it won't lead anywhere, and you have stopped thinking about yourself long ago. Mostly because you don't even know how much of yourself is left. Has “Peter Pettigrew” ever been more than a synonym for “nothing”?

You still remember your brother and sister. Michael had been a year older than you, Laura two years younger. Your parents had loved all three of you – everyone who knew the Pettigrews could tell they loved their children. Surely, people would have told you not to be ungrateful if you had mentioned that sometimes, you felt they loved them more than you. It was nonsense, of course.

Your father had taught Michael flying at the age of eight, because he was “a natural talent, that’s plain evident, and it would be a sin not to further it.” Your father had always dreamt of playing Quidditch professionally. “That’s my son!” he would say when Michael dismounted his broom, face flushed, hair tousled, new bruises adorning his arms and legs. Maybe he would fulfil Father’s dream.

You have acrophobia.

Laura looked like a porcelain doll, slender, with blond locks, large blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. She was “mum’s little girl”. Your mother would sing songs and bake cookies with her, and she would dress her in a small, pink apron with laces, because it looked “so adorable” on her.

Of course, you were never excluded from it, but singing of bunnies and kittens was boring, and there was no apron for you. Sometimes, you thought you would not even have minded laces.

Truth be told, you were jealous, and there were days when you would hate them. And you hated yourself for it, because you knew it was not their fault. But that made you hate them even more, because you were not allowed to blame them, even secretly. It was a vicious circle.

Then they died.

Michael was ten years old, and Father had already been dreaming of him joining the Quidditch team at Hogwarts. But Michael fell off his broom, and nothing could be done. He was dead immediately.

Three months later, Laura got sick: acute lymphatic leukaemia. Only a few weeks went by, then your parents had lost two children.

You missed them terribly, for even though you had been jealous, you had loved them. Still, you couldn't suppress the thought that maybe your parents would pay more attention to you, that they would love you more, now that you were all they had left. You felt horribly guilty for it, and you would much rather have your siblings alive -- but you couldn't help hoping.

Your hope was not fulfilled, however. It seemed that your parents did not notice you at all. It seemed that they had only noticed you because of the other two. That in some strange way you did not understand you had been a part of them, and now that they were gone, you were nothing. That you had died, too.

You hated them for dying and taking you with them, and in the darkest hours of the night, you hated them for living in the first place – for defining you, for preventing you from being an actual person in your parents’ eyes. And again, you hated yourself for it.

Finally, you came to Hogwarts. It was a relief, because you could escape a home where you weren't really noticed, where you felt even more diminished ever since your siblings’ deaths. Where you felt dead yourself. At Hogwarts, things would be different.

You found friends, and at first, it seemed that everything was going to be fine. You were an inseparable quartet, you had fun together, and you finally felt alive. You didn't like going home during holidays, and you always were eager to return back to school.

But it didn't last. Slowly, as the years went by, you began to realise that indeed nothing had changed. Again, you were defined by others; again, people knew who you were only because they saw you as part of someone else.

James was clever, popular, a genius Quidditch player, and eventually became Head Boy. He was plain perfect. Nothing you could ever compete with.

Sirius had this reckless charm that, although it often got him into trouble, still managed to endear him to everyone and get him off lightly almost every time. He looked dashing and in time developed a casual elegance that made people like you look even more chubby and colourless.

The two of them knew about their qualities, and they let others feel that they did, even their friends. And you, too. Granted, they'd let you copy their homework, and they'd never let you down when you were in trouble. You had fun together, but you could never get rid of the feeling that all this was happening with some kind of superiority on their part, a superiority they were well aware of. The older you all grew, the more obvious their air of generosity was becoming, or so you thought. And the remarks they made – without the intention to hurt you, sure… but still.

_'Put that away, will you, before Wormtail wets himself with excitement.'_

You gritted your teeth and kept your mouth shut. It was true, wasn’t it? You were pathetic, how you'd always cheer them, how you'd try to please them. You knew that if you were to lose them, you would lose your identity.

_'This mousy boy who’s always hanging out with Potter and Black.'_

You loathed yourself for it, and in a way, you hated them, just as you had hated Michael and Laura. For being better than you, for overshadowing you. And again, you hated yourself for hating them. They didn't mean you ill. They weren't to blame for the fact that you were nothing without them. You should have been grateful – you knew it, and you were. How pathetic! Again, it was a vicious circle. You doubt they ever noticed. You weren't important enough.

It wasn't that different with Remus. He, too, was a little self-conscious, a feeling originating from being a werewolf. But it didn't make him the boring sidekick. He wasn't a follower like you, although he still didn't do anything to stop them from fighting with Snape.

Thinking of Snivellus, as they used to call him, made you furious in a way you failed to understand for quite some time, and when you finally realised what exactly irked you so much, you were disgusted with yourself. It was just another proof of how wretched a creature you were: You were jealous of him, jealous of Snivellus, of all people!

If your places had been swapped, if he had been in Gryffindor and you in Slytherin, would they have hated you as much as they hated him? Would they have played pranks on you, tried to ridicule you? Would they have noticed you at all? You doubted it, no, you knew it wouldn't have happened. Snape was _someone_ to them, someone to hate, someone important. You were not, even though you were their friend. They could have done without you.

Everyone could do without you, and you secretly began to hate everyone for it.

When Sirius asked you to become Secret Keeper for James and Lily, you had changed from how you had been at school. You had been sick of always being the sidekick, of being no one, nothing. Your greatest wish had always been to be someone, and that was what the Dark Lord had offered you. You had become angrier, colder, and eager to prove yourself, no matter two whom, and so you had accepted. To be someone, to be powerful.

At least, that was what you used to tell yourself, because for the greatest part, it had been fear. Nothing more. The knowledge that none of the others would have let themselves be intimidated so much to betray their friends made you despise yourself and hate them for - as always - being better than you. Hatred was a useful catalyst, and when the opportunity to retaliate came, you seized it.

And wasn't it typical that no one ever imagined in their wildest dreams that you could be the traitor? Not Peter, nice, boring, untalented Peter. But you proved them wrong, all of them! You were someone. The one who had brought your master the most useful information. He would be proud of you.

But then your master was defeated by a baby, and Sirius was chasing after you. You didn't want to end up in Azkaban – end up here, where you are now – so you did the only thing you really knew to do: became nothing again. You faked your death and were able to escape.

For years, you lived as the Weasleys' family pet. First Percy, then Ron. And wasn't it ironic that these boys loved this stupid, useless rat? To them, it seemed, Scabbers meant more than you had meant to anyone when you had been Peter. Pathetic, again.

When finally the Dark Lord had returned, you could have walked away from him. You weren't forced to help him retrieve a human body, to sacrifice your hand for it, to live in fear of him for the next years. But you still wanted to be someone, you had enough of hiding and being nothing. You would always be a fugitive, unless he could take control.

You hoped he would be grateful, but of course you were wrong. You hadn't learnt anything. The following years you spent as his whipping boy, and at some point he even lost interest in punishing you. You were nothing once again.

Now your master is dead, just as your siblings, as all your former friends, and there is no one left who defines you. Somewhere in the last corner of your heart, you hoped for Harry Potter to do you this service. To hate you, or maybe even pity you, although the thought is sickening. Then your death would be important, because he is important. You would be remembered in relation to him. But once more, this hope was futile.

_'You’re nothing.'_

The faint light that had been shining through the trellised window has vanished; it is night. Not long and it will be morning, and then they will come to get you. You draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, trying to keep yourself grounded. You can't waste the last few hours.

But then, why not? There is nothing left to do. Nothing left of you. It has all faded away over the years.

And now, in the dark of the night, you realise that Harry Potter has been wrong. You were nothing even when you had people to define you. Now that they are gone, you are less than nothing.

You are still shivering, but it's only because of the cold - suddenly, you aren't afraid any more. Tomorrow, they will come to take your soul, but they can't take away anything that you do not have.

No, you do not have to be afraid.

You smile.


End file.
